by Diane Haeger
“What We believe, Monsieur Nostradamus, is that it is God’s grace that has apparently granted you this gift of sight,” the King finally said, speaking formally. “God shall determine Our fate, and that of Our family. Although you have written a great deal presumably about Us, We do not bring you here now to speak of those writings.”
The old man could not contain his surprise. He had considered this invitation to the Court of France a victory. He had prepared to speak to the King, a known skeptic, of his personal future.
“Our greater concern, Monsieur Nostradamus, is for France. If your skills have not been exaggerated, you must tell Us how We shall fare against Spain and the new ruler, the Emperor’s son, Philip. We should like to know how Our causes might best be advanced.”
Nostradamus faced him squarely; his eyes hardly seemed to blink. “France shall one day know a greater power and glory than Spain, that is true,” he said, “but Your Majesty must know that the glory of which I speak shall not be achieved without great cost in both lives and money.”
“Glory is rarely achieved without the payment of a handsome price, Monsieur. Speak to Us of Calais. Shall We take it back under French rule from the clutches of the Queen of England?”
“Once again Your Majesty shall soon count Calais as part of France.”
“Splendid!” Henri smiled. “I knew it. And Our victory in Italy over the Emperor’s son shall cap Our power!”
“I am afraid not, Your Majesty. The victory of which I spoke against Spain shall belong to a future King of France. Not to you.”
Henri’s dark brows lowered over black marble eyes. “Then that is a prophecy that we must change, Monsieur Nostradamus.”
“Respectfully, Your Majesty, I do not believe it will be in your power to do so. Almighty God has decided, in his infinite wisdom, to allow me to see the future. . .not to change it.”
“So then you would have Us stand aside and make no attempt to regain French land, since the word of one man, namely yourself, says it will not be so? If We did that, Monsieur; if We did nothing, not only would We be called a coward, but We would merely be fulfilling your prophecies rather than the destiny of France.”
“I believe that the outcome shall be the same whatever Your Majesty decides to do. But as King, you have a choice to spare the innocent lives of many Frenchmen by choosing not to act.”
“So you would counsel Us to cease activity in Italy?”
“I would say that you should know great sorrow and loss if you do not.”
Henri sprung from his throne. The meeting was over.
“We thank you, Monsieur,” he said, extending his hand. “And now, We are told that the Queen is most anxious to meet with you. Then, the royal guards shall see you safely conducted to L’Hotel de Sens. Perhaps, before you return to Provence, we shall meet again. This has been most enlightening.”
“I shall pray to God that it has been,” the prophet replied as he lowered his head, then added, “I am always at Your Majesty’s service.”
Nostradamus made no further attempt to warn the King of the overwhelming premonition of doom that he sensed as they sat alone together. There would have been no point, because the future, black and menacing, also whispered that there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it if he had.
“HIS MAJESTY APPROACHES, and he wishes an audience with you!” Lucrezia announced to the Queen with excitement.
Catherine looked up from her embroidery stand near the fire. She was certain that she could not possibly have heard correctly. “Henri wishes to see me at this hour of the day?” she whispered in disbelief.
“Yes, Your Majesty. He sent Monsieur de Saint-André ahead to announce himself to you.”
It seemed impossible for Catherine to comprehend as she struggled to bring her hulking body to her feet. Lucrezia whisked away the embroidery material while Marie daubed her with fresh Italian musk.
“My jewels! Quickly, my jewels!” she cried. “The ones I had made for my presentation to parliament! Lucrezia, my hair. Oh dear, what of my hair?”
“Very pretty, Your Majesty.”
“And my gown? Is it all right?”
The jewels were fastened at her neck and more musk was applied to her wrists and throat. The room was blue with it. Catherine stood in the center of her receiving room, swaying back and forth like an adolescent girl. As Henri came toward her, everyone in the Queen’s apartments bowed or curtsied. He kissed her cheek with a sensitivity that overwhelmed her.
“Leave us please for a few moments. We have private business with the Queen,” he said and waited until they had all gone. Then he led her slowly to a forest green velvet couch in the center of the room. They sat down beside one another as awkwardly as two children newly betrothed.
“May I have something brought for us?” she asked. “It will take only a moment.”
The smile that passed across Henri’s lips was strained. “Thank you no, Madame. I cannot stay.”
He turned to face her and took the small fleshy fingers of one of her hands in his own. It was warm and moist and he felt a churning in the pit of his stomach, but he suppressed it. “I have had a great deal of time to think of late, and I find that I have been remiss. I have not told you that I owe you a great deal of thanks.”
“Thanks? For what?”
“It is no secret to you that I had reservations when I was required to name you Regent in my absence. I was, however, informed soon afterward by my staff that your performance in that capacity was exceptional.” He took a difficult breath. “Catherine. . .no matter what has passed between us over the years, you did not hesitate to come to my aid when it mattered. This country and I owe you a debt of gratitude that cannot be easily repaid.”
Catherine was completely overwhelmed. It was the first time she could recall that Henri had ever thanked her for anything, and one of the few times in twenty-four years as his wife that his overtures toward her had been genuine. Then he handed her a small chest of painted oak, studded in silver. She looked up at him, her brown eyes brimming with tears.
“What is it, Henri? What did Monsieur Nostradamus tell you yesterday?”
“Can a man not, when he feels so inclined, honor his wife? Well go on, open it!”
Catherine pushed back the lid and let out a gasp. Inside, on a bed of red velvet, was a national medal fashioned by Clouet. On one side was her image and on the other was the face of the King. Tears rolled down her full painted cheeks, staining them. She looked back at him, unable to speak.
“You deserve this recognition, Catherine. I truly hope that it pleases you.”
She looked back down at the medal as though it might have disappeared as Henri offered her a handkerchief and waited for her to dry her eyes. She knew about all the medals he had struck in honor of Diane de Poitiers over the years. It had been another recognition of which she had been deprived by her husband’s obsession. But now, in this rare private moment between them, she could think of nothing but forgiving him everything.
“I know that these years have been difficult for you and that I have often been less than kind.”
“You need say nothing more, Henri.”
“But I want to.” His tone was gentle. His words were honest. She fingered the medal. “You have been a good wife and you have tried your best to please me. We have rejoiced with the births of ten beautiful children, and together we have suffered the loss of three of them. . .Oh, mine was a miserable youth, Catherine. I was tormented by so many things, and I know I gave you cause for nothing but to despise me. Still, you never did. I just want to say now, for everything, I thank you. . .truly, thank you, and I hope that finally now there can be peace between us.”
He was gone before Catherine had stopped crying.
She was still sitting on the embroidered couch when Lucrezia and the Cardinal de Châtillon returned. To say that she had been stunned by his coming, much less by his words, was as grave an understatement as she thought there might be. He actually cared fo
r her. He had said as much. It did not even matter that he was leaving her now to go to his mistress. Diane was finally inconsequential. Catherine was Queen. When he had really needed something, he had turned to her, not to Diane, and she had not disappointed him. Her entire life and her future had changed in that one exacting moment between them. She had guessed there was hope before today; now she knew. It was she who would match his step, she who would stand beside him and she with whom he would share history, at last.
CALAIS HAS BEEN TAKEN in the name of the King of France!”
Henri’s secretary, Florimond Robertet, stormed into the grand gallery at Anet, past a sea of startled faces who stopped their laughing and dancing and turned to listen. The King was hosting a New Year’s feast in honor of the Duchesse de Valentinois and the room was packed to capacity with the most highly placed French and Italian ambassadors and nobles. The room was dressed with holly and ivy, and the fireplace hearth overflowed with traditional New Year’s gifts. There were long white-sheeted tables full of nougat, pastries, jams and special holiday hypocras. Everywhere was the scent of pine. Henri was on the dance floor with his daughter, Elizabeth, and Diane was being led through a Galliard by the Dauphin, François. No one moved as Robertet spoke.
“Praise be to God!” Henri finally declared with a resounding holler and thrust his fist into the air. Then he pulled his daughter to his chest and kissed her. Everyone followed the King, hugging and kissing those who had the good fortune to be nearest. Diane embraced the Dauphin and he rejoiced with the others. But to this simple boy, even at the age of fifteen, the gravity of the implications of the victory for France, to whom Calais had been lost almost 200 years before, was still hopelessly lost.
Across the floor near a banquet table, an overwhelmed Cardinal de Lorraine hoisted a heavy silver goblet studded with jewels and then emptied it with one swallow. He has done it, thought Charles. My brother has taken Calais! A victory of this magnitude was needed to raise us in favor and François did not disappoint me.
Beside him, Anne d’Este, his brother’s wife, wept with joy, knowing the implications for the entire family of her husband’s victory. After order was restored to the crowd and everyone began to lift their goblets in a cheer for France, the Dauphin requested another dance with Diane. She curtsied respectfully and then obliged him.
“You dance very well, Madame,” he said as he awkwardly tried to keep the beat to the music. “Is it true that you taught the King to dance?”
“I did, many years ago, when he was just your age, as a matter of fact.”
“I think His Majesty owes a great many things to you.”
“Your Highness is very kind to think so, even if it is untrue.”
“No. I am certain it is true. I only pray one day to be as happy in my marriage to the Queen of Scots as the King of France is with you.”
François was a sensitive and thoughtful boy, and perhaps next to her own daughter by the King, she loved him best of all the remaining seven royal children. They had formed an early attachment to one another because he had been the first. The feeling had always been mutual. He quite plainly adored her. Even with the bevy of nurses and tutors to confuse him, for the first two years of his life, he had persisted in calling Diane maman. Their conversation now, as they danced the Galliard, was stopped by François’ velvet slippered foot on top of her toes. Diane grimaced beneath the sudden missed beat.
“Oh, please forgive me, Madame. Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. It is nothing at all. But careful now or you shall lose the beat,” she said, directing him back to their dance. “Listen to the music. Catch it again. There you go!”
The boy looked down at his feet and his movements became more labored. “I am afraid I am a dreadful dancer Madame. The only person whose feet I do not manage to injure is the Queen of Scots.”
“Your Highness is very fond of her,” Diane observed.
“I adore her. She is the kindest, most gentle girl. . .We knew from the first that we should always be together. I pray that one day His Majesty shall agree to our marriage, but he has put it off for so long I sometimes fear as much as Mary that he may desire us otherwise matched.”
Diane knew that she was being used as a conduit to the King by this awkward segue, and could not help but be charmed by the boy’s conviction. Like the Dauphin, she too believed them ideally matched. Their attraction and devotion to one another had been instant and had been sustained these past ten years since the Queen of Scots had come to live in France. But Diane also understood and agreed with Henri’s reserve in the matter. There was more at stake than a young boy’s coup de coeur. Such a match would bring unparalleled power to the house of Guise and give it an unsurpassed influence with the Crown.
Once there had been no question in either of their minds that such a match would be desirable. Both François de Guise and his brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, had always supported her. But time and the power that they now possessed had changed the brothers; had deepened their desire for ultimate control. After Henri had named François as Lieutenant-General, the ingratiating veneer that they had always exhibited at Court, and especially to her, had slowly fallen away. In its place were arrogance, entitlement and deceit.
The Cardinal, who had given up his table years ago to dine with the Duchesse de Valentinois, now returned to his own chateaux in Paris and Joinville. He regularly responded to requests for his company with polite excuses. Neither Charles nor François attended Diane with the frequency they once had, or felt the need for civility toward her as a primary concern. Their younger brother, Claude, her son-in-law, was the one family exception.
If it were possible for them to be more disliked at Court than Montmorency, the Guises now were. But despite the pervasiveness of his doubts against them, the King of France was an honorable man who made a promise and kept it. Diane knew without needing to ask that this victory in Calais, thanks to the leadership of François de Guise, would finally be paid for with the marriage of the Dauphin of France to their niece, the Queen of Scots.
“THE KINGDOM HASN’T THE MONEY for such a marriage and I haven’t the inclination, but what else can I do?” Henri asked.
Before dawn, while everyone else slept, Diane and Henri bathed alone together among the water lilies, in the new lake he had built for them at Anet. “Guise is owed the marriage of his niece for his victory in Calais, and I know very well I must agree to it.”
Diane brushed the wet hair from his eyes under the moonlight. “But you do not trust him with so much power.”
“Not anymore.”
“You have as good as promised him the match.”
“Yes, and I fear I shall be forced to make good on my word.”
Diane stepped naked from the water and wrapped herself in a large blue blanket. Henri followed her and they sat on the stone bench listening to the birds and watching the early-morning mist rise from the lake. She looked for a long time at the perfectly still surface on the water before she spoke.
“The Guises were once our friends. . .”
He looked at her, then mouthed the words of Tacitus with a disparaging sigh, “But lust of power burns more fiercely than all the passions combined.”
IN THE AUTUMN OF 1558, the death of England’s Queen Mary changed the political playing field yet again. Suddenly now, Philip II, the Emperor’s son and Mary’s husband, was a widower. If a marital alliance could be made between France and Spain, there might well be a true peace at last. Like his father before him, Henri was finally tired of the battles and tired of the death. He had won back Calais but he had paid a heavy price.
Henri had grown to manhood wanting to possess Italy because his father, and the King before him, had wanted Italy. It had been his duty to fight the Emperor and his heir. But now he had begun to think of how many had died for the cause, how much money had been spent and how many sacrifices had been made over nothing more than patches of land. Henri was tired now as his father before him had been tir
ed. He wanted there to be an end to it. He wanted to enjoy his life and the family God had given him in peace.
Thirteen months after François de Guise’s brilliant victory and the marriage of Mary Queen of Scots to the Dauphin, the King of France stunned his advisors by agreeing to two treaty weddings. His sister, Marguerite, would marry the Duke of Savoy and his eldest daughter, Elizabeth, would become the bride of his greatest rival, Philip II. It was a marriage of Spain to France. An end to all of the fighting. At last.
WHEN THE TREATY of Cateau-Cambresis was ratified in April, Henri, Diane and the entire Court turned their attention to the upcoming treaty weddings. It was to be a double union, first uniting King Philip II of Spain, by proxy, with Henri’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, and the King’s spinster sister, Marguerite de Valois, with Emmanuel-Philibert, Duke of Savoy. Henri, who still touted jousting as the ultimate chivalric spectacle, commanded a full round of tournaments to commence upon the arrival of the throngs of Spanish nobles and courtiers who came to Paris for the wedding.
A newly renovated Paris shone proudly beneath the pageantry and celebration. Brightly colored banners that also sported the royal emblem hung from paned windows. Roofs and windows of houses near the jousting field were rented out at great prices. In the shadow of the Bastille, scaffolding was erected all around Les Tournelles where the joust would be held.
This great renewal of the French capital that the Spanish and other dignitaries now saw was due to the influence of one woman, and everyone was made to know it. Diane de Poitiers had not forgotten the foul rancorous odors of the sewers of Paris, all of them teaming with disease. Nor could she erase from her mind the tenement houses and barefoot children who wandered through the city streets when she had first returned to Court twenty-six years ago. Her work to reform the city hospitals had expanded into reform of the city itself. Residents followed the lead of their King and his mistress, who had begun reconstruction of the Louvre Palace. The old thatch-roof houses in Saint-Honoré were being replaced by stately mansions, many of them exhibiting the favourite’s designs. New pride in the city was clear.
